


Hunger

by thepapercrow



Series: A Different Life [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pre-Relationship, prostitution (not with pairing)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26810785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapercrow/pseuds/thepapercrow
Summary: When Charles hurts his hand and can't hunt he is forced stoop to petty crime in town to get food. One such crime gets out of hand when he accidently picks a notorious outlaw as a mark.Takes place when Arthur and Charles are in their early-to-mid 20s.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: A Different Life [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961767
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I made them younger so I could have an excuse for how much of a mess they are in this. I was super hungry, so I wrote this.

The force of the shove sent Charles toppling to the ground. The mud immediately soaked through his pants and splashed up his back. The mark had been iffy from the start, law was all over this town and even the shopkeepers were clearly armed. But he’d been hungry, hurt, and banking on the fact the town saloon was filled to the brim. A cacophony of music, yelling, and laughter had poured out of the place, drawing him in to the thought of food and money.

One good hit and he’d be gone, miles away from this grimy town. Or at least that had been the plan- he was currently staring up into the angry face of a very angry young man who couldn’t be much older than twenty. And the barrel of a gun.

“You have something of mine,” the man said, voice low and threatening. Too hard for his image, the man was well dressed, hair freshly cut and boots still shiny. Probably a wealthy boy from an equally wealthy family.

Charles didn’t answer, just lurched to his knees and swiveled his leg towards the man, catching his calf and flipping him over. He looked startled at the action and let an undignified gurgle as he found himself alongside Charles in the mud. Good. He left his assailant gasping for breath as he clambered up, the revolver now safe in his own hands. He turned and made a break for the edge of town- he’d been meaning to snatch a few wallets, not murder the locals. What he didn’t expect was the impact from behind as the other man recovered and launched himself.

He was much stronger than Charles expected, and when he felt hands around his throat he felt his own twinge of fear, quickly turning to anger. Charles flung himself back into a nearby hitching post, feeling the impact booming through his own bones as he tried to dislodge his passenger. The man gasped in pain but didn’t let up- savagely trying to get the upper hand even as he got smashed back over and over.

“I’ll kill ya…” he gasped out, but from Charles’s position, it didn’t seem likely. The bite took him off guard though, the blood welling up causing more confusion than pain.

“What?” he shouted as he finally got the upper hand and drove the man back into the dirt, throat still burning from where the man had bitten him. “What’s wrong with you?”

The man looked more mud than man at this point, neat clothing now a mess of loose dirty cloth. He was snarling and bloody and for a moment Charles wondered if men could be rabid. And he’d just been bitten. After another failed attempt at shoving Charles off, he finally went limp.

“Why should I, you bastard? You just snatched my shit. I need it or I’m dead anyway, so you may as well just cut my throat now. In front of all these folks.”

He was right, a small crowd had gathered, more peeking out from their storefronts. Charles had misjudged, he’d thought he’d get away without a second glance. The man before him had been deep in his drink, laughing along with another man’s rambling. Charles had been tucked into the corner of the grimy saloon, drink in one hand, hat low on his head. He had to be careful when he scoped out a public place, stick around too long and he’d surely get some law or local racists ‘checking up on him.’ A few scars and he’d gotten it down.

There had been a few good marks- the young lady in a red dress with the taste for gin, the angry farmer with a bad eye. But the man before him had looked the wealthiest in the least threatening way. Money, but not too much. Also, the way he was letting the other man touch his knee betrayed just how drunk he must be, or how idiotic. The gallows of this town seemed bigger than most. Not that he could speak, snatching bags in the light of day. At least he wouldn’t starve to death.

But perhaps he had misjudged his target. Some drunkards were jeering, others just shaking their heads or gasping. Charles was startled to realize that two of the spectators were law, guns on their backs. He jerked back, trying to flee but the man beneath him grabbed his arm, preventing him from pulling away.

“Nah, ya ain’t gettin’ away that easy,” he snarled up at him. The men let them flounder around a bit before the first man stepped forward. He had a thick mustache and beady eyes.

“Boys,” he said, bored almost. “Is this really necessary?” His eyes were fixed on Charles, who somehow failed to break free. The sheriff finally got around to fixing his gun on Charles and tried again. “Making me repeat myself? I asked you to explain yourself?” Charles didn’t have anything to say to them though, no defense, the evidence spread out beneath him, smiling now.

“You ain’t so good at this are ya?” the man beneath him said, Charles didn’t answer either of the men. He’d run a few hits like this when he was younger. But none that had ended with so many eyes fixed on him. He was scared, waiting to feel the rain of bullets. Here in the mud. “I’ll kill them for you if you hand over that gun. Give me my bag, and I’ll make my shots count.”

“Wha-”

The man just blinked up at him. “Honest.”

“Put your hands up now!” yelling from the distance, angrier now at Charles’s lack of response. Surely they hadn’t noticed the gun yet, or he’d be mowed down.

“I’ll shoot them myself!” he whispered, mind flying, trying to come up with an escape plan.

“With that hand?” came the response immediately. The bandaged hand was currently hanging at his side, fingers throbbing. “Even your punches are weak with that left hand of yours.”

Charles snorted down at his bloodied face, “don’t look like it from here.” The warning shot broke them out of their conversation, the deputy this time.

“Is that? Brady, that’s- I think that’s Morgan!” the deputy yelled to his partner. Charles more sensed than saw the change in demeanor in the sheriff as the words rang out.

“Don’t let him get up Mike!” the sheriff seemed desperate now, and when he leveled the gun at Charles again, he saw the metal in his eyes- not teasing or bored. He pressed the revolver down into his opponents’ hand, letting the bag fall limp at his side.

“Then do it,” he said. The first shot from caught Charles in the arm, pain tearing its way through him. It took a moment to realize the shot hadn’t been from the muddy man. He heard a curse from across the road, the sheriff then. Charles frantically whipped his head around, trying to locate some cover but came up empty- just endless gaunt faces and filth. The next two shots were hardly distinguishable, blending into one brain numbing clamor. The sheriff immediately toppled over, fountain of blood springing up from his head.

“Shit!” the deputy yelled as he stumbled back, gun falling to the ground. More blood, and screams- the crowd had finally come to life. “Shit, shit, shit-” the litany broke off as the next shot landed. Then just gurgling. Hoofbeats and more yelling and whistles were breaking out as the crowd scattered. Charles didn’t think as he grabbed the man’s arm and yanked. Eyes widened as they both fell to the side- a large imprint in the ground where the rifle shot had landed. They’d gotten a sniper on the roof. After a few seconds wasted in incredulous staring, the two of them broke into a run.

“Hotel around back. We can take those horses,” the man yelled out. He slipped on the mud a couple times, buckled boots not finding purchase but for whatever reason Charles pulled him up each time. He did have the only gun between them after all. More shots peppered the ground around them. Charles couldn’t tell if he’d been shot again or not, his blood screaming as it was.

The pair of horses revealed themselves as they rounded the corner weren’t as fast as they could be, one of them clearly a work horse. But they'd have to do. Charles arm burned, felt as if fire was slowly creeping up into his neck. The ride through the town was a blur, the horses frantic and confused about the rough treatment as Charles’s usual careful, gentle horsemanship was overcome by his need to escape. To get as far away from this stupid, god-forsaken town as possible. He considered the man riding alongside him, as muddy and blood-covered as he was. The man must have noticed, as he looked back at Charles and smiled. A big, toothy grin that confused Charles into a stupor. Which seemed to spur him on even more, bearded face breaking into laugher.

“Are you an idiot?” he laughed out. Charles thought back to the bar, thinking this man must be ‘drunk or idiotic.’ He just shrugged, trying to keep his own face straight, still half convinced the man was about to whip out his gun again and finally lay waste to him.

“Didn’t think you’d put up such a fight. Figured you’d be easy.”

“Well shit, I ain’t so easy as that.” The man winked at him. Charles couldn’t help but gape- the face so recently twisted into something savage and wild now pleasant and gleeful almost. “Arthur, by the way.”

“What?”

“My name, that is.” Arthur looked a little embarrassed, perhaps regretting trying to engage Charles at all.

“Ah, right- Arthur Morgan? Heard about you up north. Thought you were some rich local fool- easy to rob.”

“Me, rich? Why’d ya think that? You hear me talk?”

“I didn’t get close enough while I was scoping out the place, don’t want folks to see me watching them. Makes them uneasy.”

Now Arthur looked more embarrassed, pink face threatening to shine through the muddy splotches. “You was watchin’ me then?”

“Ah, not really. Just enough to plan the grab. Most people never even notice,”

“You tellin’ me! I played that game for years. Too much danger in it though, never know what fool is actually a killer ya know?”

“Clearly, I’m Charles,” Charles replied, steering his horse off the main path, “this way leads to thicker forest- they’ll never track us through it.” Arthur paused at the tree line. “Unless you want to head off of course…” he trailed off. He _had_ tried to rob him, there was no way he would willingly follow him into the forest. But after a brief awkward pause, Arthur just kicked his horse and followed behind him.

“Alright Charles, hardly wanna be caught in open country with the skies like that anyway.” Sure enough, the looming storm clouds didn’t look especially welcoming. Charles stomach growled again- he’d had just enough for the cheap ale to keep up appearances in the saloon- the modest food menu outside of his budget. “You got shot you know,” he said as they took off.

“Yeah,” Charles offered, tired. “Not the first time.” He didn’t quite like the look of pity that had bloomed on Arthur’s face but was too tired to add anything.

“I’ve got a needle in my bag somewhere if you want,” the offer was stilted, like Arthur wasn’t certain. “I’m pretty good at sewing people up- not my first time either.” He wiggled his leg until Charles glanced down and saw a matching wound on his calf, blood pooling up beneath his jeans. The sky was getting dark, the evening storm bringing a chill along with it.

“Sure, I suppose that’s probably best.”

-

It had been raining for a good twenty minutes before they found adequate shelter- a run down fishing cabin. The inside was even more dilapidated than the exterior suggested, old ropes piled across the floor, sections of roofing stripped off resulting in a liberal layer of water seeping into the wooden floorboards.

“Comfy,” Charles said. Arthur just poked around the wreckage.

“Was hoping for a fireplace at least. Or maybe a stove.” That got Charles’s attention- food. His stomach growled. Arthur laughed at him, “I agree completely.” Charles doubted he fully did, he was near faint with hunger, his stomach painfully tight. I’d been days since his last meal, that was the only incentive that had been pressing enough to draw him out of the woods. “Injuries, then food?” Charles felt the need to shake him, to grab his bag and find whatever morsel of food lay within but found himself nodding along.

“Sounds good. But why are you being so helpful? I mean… I did nearly rob you of what must be the most valuable bag in the world…”

Arthur had found a relatively dry patch on top of a coil of ropes and was playing with some sort of musty net hanging on the wall, stripping the fraying strands apart. “Well, you did save my life a few times. That shot would’ve left me short a head. Even if it was your fault any of it happened.”

“But I just did it to save myself, you're a good shot,” he replied and almost cringed back at the look in Arthur’s blue eyes, piercing even in the dim light. Why had he admitted that? It was the truth, but now, looking at the man in front of him he was glad he’d done it regardless.

“Oh-”

The next few minutes were tense. Arthur had busied himself clearing the clutter from the one livable corner, opposite from the door. Charles tried his best to get a fire started after fashioning a crude fire pit right on the floor- the cabin was past saving anyway. The flint was the only sound for the next few minutes. When the fire finally ignited, they huddled closer to it from within the little rope enclosed area, the fiber doing a decent job of keeping the worst of the wet away from them. A few moth-eaten sacks had been salvaged from a chest acted as crude mats.

After a couple minutes of much needed rest, Arthur stood up and started stripping off his boots, then his jeans. Charles looked away.

“What? Should I keep them on to stitch up my leg then?” Arthur asked, voice hard.

“Course not. There’s a pail over there- I’ll boil some water.” The modest collection of rainwater would have to suffice, at least it boiled quickly. Arthur had a bit of trouble maneuvering into a position suitable to stitching. The injury turned out to be the side of his thigh, not deep, but more that a graze- a small length of skin just managed to hang where the bullet cut through the muscle.

“Hell, how were you even walking on that?” Charles found himself asking. Arthur shrugged and looked away as Charles stared intently at the wound. “Want some help?” He asked, a peace offering.

“No, I’m okay.” But after a couple more minutes of struggling around slippery fingers Arthur finally looked up at him and nodded. “You done this before?”

“I did say I’d been shot before… so yeah.”

“Good.”

Arthur was a good patient, all things considered. He didn’t struggle or complain- just sat there completely immobile, eyes staring off at nothing. It was a bit unsettling and Charles made extra care to be as gentle as possible regardless of the lack of response. Arthur didn’t seem to register when he stopped.

“All finished,” Charles said after another dragging seconds of no response. Arthur’s eyes snapped to his finally, a faint smile brightening his face.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Yeah. I didn’t just grab you because you’re a good shot, I felt bad about how things turned out. Meant to take your money, not get you killed.” Arthur didn’t comment, but seemed happier, and when Charles finally turned to his own arm Arthur cautiously reached out to help him, eyes looking for an answer. Charles nodded back.

“I’ll have to cut it.”

Charles heart dropped, this was his last shirt. “Maybe just work it over the bullet hole.” Arthur gave him a look.

“That’ll just tear up your arm more!” Charles hesitated before nodding, more to ease the concerned lines on Arthur’s face than anything. The sooner this was done that faster he might get some food. He wanted to ask what Arthur had on him, but he wasn’t sure the food would be extended to him, after everything that happened.

Arthur hadn’t been lying earlier, his stitching was neat and efficient. His stomach rumbled again.

“Okay, okay. I get it,” Arthur said as he moved back to his satchel. “Which one, canned peaches or salmon?”

Salmon. Charles had never been so excited for canned fare. “Either way is fine,” he said. To his mortification Arthur must have noticed his intent stare at the fish because he extended the can to him. Charles managed to pace himself somewhat, but he was done well before Arthur- who was laid back on the ground staring at the ceiling and lazily grabbing a peach segment now and again.

“Thanks,” Charles said into the still evening. “For sharing I mean.”

“Course. Here.” He pushed the remaining peaches over to him and after a little protesting he found himself eating the best canned fruit he’d ever had.

“And for forgiving that mess back there. You shouldn’t you know. Like you said back there, why not just kill me?”

Arthur rolled over to look at him more fully, cringing a little when his injured leg brushed against the ground. “I don’t know, I just… you looked familiar.”

“I look like someone you know?”

“No, not that. I just- I’ve been there. Snatchin’ shit cause I’m desperate and pitiful and… yeah, I don’ know.” The fire flickered around them. Weird to see such a hardened criminal so exposed.

-

Charles hadn’t heard much, Dutch van der Linde was the one plastered across the wanted posters, not Arthur- a handsome mustached face that smugly seemed to mock the viewer. Wanted for murder, theft, arson, fraud, kidnapping. The info about Morgan had been more subtle, the word of small-town sheriff, the footnote in the odd poster for van der Linde.

“van der Linde’s whore was in town last week, bet the man’s lurkin’ ‘bout in the woods somewhere nearby. Perhaps we should collect on that bounty- we’d sleep fine for the rest of the year, hell, the rest of the decade even with that kind of cash,” the dirt-crusted man blurted to his friend as Charles sat off to the side of the inn, hood low on his forehead.

“Nah Grant, I hear the boy’s good with a gun- I ain’t tryin’ to die out here in the middle of nowhere. Besides, we’ve still got the 200 from Silverson.”

Charles filed out of the inn quietly. The two bounty hunters had been noisy when Charles ambushed them hours later in the woods. One of them falling to his knees and begging. He’d been forced to shoot the first one in the hand, but left the other one whole, if 200 dollars lighter. When Charles saw his own wanted poster alongside the larger, fancier one for Dutch van der Linde in town days later, he wished he had just killed them.

-

“Also,” Arthur looked down, embarrassed, “I don’t know what ya saw, but I didn’t really wanna be there anyway. So I guess you saved me from a bad time.”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur scowled at that, “gotta keep up appearances, can’t be grumpy to a customer.”

“A what?” Charles asked, startled by Arthur’s confession.

“I… well you said you was watchin’ and all so I figured… It’s not like I want to, I just get a lot of pressure and I owe a big debt. So that’s that.”

“Oh,” Charles paused, “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s alright. I’m sleepy, I’ll be down here if you need me.” With another pained grunt Arthur quickly rolled over so he was facing the wall. “Night.” A few minutes of silence passed. “Are you just going to sit over there in the water all night?” Arthur asked, not turning back.

“I don’t mind.”

Arthur just sighed and crawled a bit further from the fire into the nest of old cloth bags. “There’s more room by the fire. If you want.” More silence. “Don’t worry, I won’t try…” Charles cut him off.

“Okay,” Charles said as he moved over to the empty space, still warm. He hadn’t been this close to another person in years, the last memory sleeping next to someone was from his childhood, back when he had a family that still protected and loved him. He was pressed with an insane urge to get closer yet, he found he wanted to be friends with the odd, changeable man. He didn’t move though, surely that wouldn’t be well received. But as he drifted off to sleep, he recalled the brutal embrace from earlier- Arthur pressed up against him, violently lashing out. Arms around his neck, teeth against his neck.

Charles woke up starving but warm, Arthur nestled up against him, arm thrown carelessly across his chest. He froze, unsure what to do. Arthur looked younger like this; the angry creases gone. He stirred and woke.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Arthur said quietly, quieter than he’d been.

“I don’t mind, it was cold,” Charles replied. His stomach growled again. “Wish I could hunt with my hand like this, I saw a good amount of rabbits yesterday.”

Arthur had removed himself from Charles space but seemed more at ease. “I could try and shoot one.” Charles chuckled at the image of Arthur out in the woods, crouched behind a rock, revolver trained on a rabbit.

Arthur arched an eyebrow, “you think I can’t, do ya? Well. Just wait here.” He overestimated the strength in his leg but quickly righted himself and scurried out the door. Charles wasn’t sure how much time had passed but eventually, Arthur returned with two rabbits, shot to hell and dripping blood. He held them up with a wide smile. “Told ya.”

The rabbits were the best Charles had eaten.

“Shit.” Arthur spit out a chunk of metal. “Almost broke my goddamed teeth. Careful with that thing,” he said, eyeing the rabbit in Charles’s hand.

“I can teach you with a bow, if you want.”

Arthur looked surprised, “I doubt I’d be so good, but sure- if we ever get the chance.” This was spoken, low, like a question. Charles wasn’t sure what answer he wanted so he stayed quiet, not used to so much conversation. Arthur eventually went ahead anyway, “do you maybe… want to come with me?”

Charles felt light for a few seconds till the reality sunk in. “You run with Dutch van der Linde don’t you?” Arthur gaped at him.

“How’d you know that?”

“His posters have your name. On some of them at least.”

“Yeah, suppose you got me there. He’s an ass but I owe him a lot. Cares for us all if you can look past all the bluster.” Arthur was picking at the net again, eyes not meeting Charles. “But maybe you’re right, gettin’ mixed up with us folk ain’t wise. Forget it.”

“Well clearly I’m not so wise,” Charles finally admitted. Happiness and discomfort warred across Arthur’s face. “Can’t be worse than running alone.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t owe him nothin’, not like me. How ‘bout we work a job together first, get something mighty impressive to bring back so you’re on his good side.” Charles burst into laughter, enough to make Arthur startle. He crawled over to him and slapped his arm. “What’s wrong with you?” Arthur looked concerned.

“Just, look at us!” Arthur glanced between them; a couple of dirty, bloody thieves crouched down in a crumbling shack. “Doubt this Dutch of yours would be so impressed with this.”

“You could be right, but there’s no hurry to go back. Need somethin’ good first, huh?” Charles nodded back and helped Arthur pack their modest belongings into an old sack. The fire had finally died but the day was clear and mild as they headed off on their new horses.


End file.
